


A Study in Shadows

by Dreaming_Spire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:29:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt at Noir-Style Sherlock. Dr. John Watson is back from the war, but finds himself in a new battle - only he has no idea who his enemies are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Shadows

Jan. 20, 1946 - St. Batholomew’s, London.

John Watson was used to dead bodies. As a doctor, he’d seen them from the beginning of his training. He’d been in the war; plenty of bodies there, men he’d tried to save and men he’d killed. He’d just taken work in the morgue at St. Barts, mostly because he’d gotten to the point where he didn’t wonder if he was more suited to the company of the deceased than the living.

There was no real reason that John should be rattled by a single body in nearly perfect condition save for the “dead” bit. Except that the war was over for most people, and outside of that, it’s never easy to see someone you know lying on a slab, there but gone.

His second night on the job, and there lay the man who’d given it to him.

“Stamford,” he said. “What -” then shook his head. No use waiting. As he reached for his instruments, he heard the door open.

“Poor Dr. Stamford.”

John turned to see the day assistant, there long after she should have gone. “Miss Hooper.” He paused, trying to remember her first name. “Molly. I’m sorry. You don’t want to see him like this.” _I wish I didn’t have to, either._

She looked aside, trying to hide the beginning of tears, “I don’t, but I couldn’t believe it when I heard. He was such a nice man.”

“He was.” John wondered if it meant any more than that, if she and Mike were having some sort of outside relationship. Unsure how to proceed, he waited a moment too long. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, stopping anything else she might have said, and dashed from the room.

John turned back to Stamford’s corpse, getting the only answers he could from that.

————————————-

Nearly a week later, Miss Hooper stopped him as he passed her desk.

“Dr. Watson,” she said, low enough that she needn’t have bothered glancing worriedly about. “I think you might want to speak to someone.”

“Someone?” Did she mean another doctor - a psychiatrist? Or was this some odd way of hinting she’d like to be asked out? If so, she wasn’t making a case for it, acting more cowed than come-hither. “I really don’t think so.”

“Please. Just - just take this.” She slid a business card into his hand. He flipped it over: no name, no telephone number, just an address. He looked back at her, but she was already gathering her things and practically running for the lift.

One more strange occurrence in a series of them - enough so that John was beginning to consider the possibility that he was becoming paranoid or just delusional. He’d been in a fog since he’d worked on Stamford’s body, and a run of bad luck was quick to follow. The night after Stamford, some lunatic had nearly run John down as he rushed for the Tube. Two days later, he found himself looking for a new bedsit, thanks to a wiring fire in the walls - a good job it’d been caught before it had time to get properly blazing.

It was certainly having an effect on him: he’d been so distracted with one thing or another that he’d almost killed himself. He didn’t remember putting the ammonia on the wrong shelf, but force of habit meant that when he reached for a bottle of dye, fully intending to prepare a standard sample, it was only by chance that he’d held it close enough for the telltale smell to alert him before he’d added it to the formalin. And wouldn’t that be a nice note for the charts, he thought. Dr. John H. Watson, war veteran, dead of chlorine gas and stupidity.

It was stupidity. He’d been rattled by Mike’s death, hadn’t been sleeping well. The near-miss in the road was probably his own fault, too. And how could he be surprised that the wiring was bad in the bedsit - it had seemed the best of the bad lot he’d been able to afford, but that said enough as it was. He shouldn’t be surprised that he was making stupid mistakes, yet he still managed a surge of annoyance at himself.

The unsettled, uncomfortable feeling remained with him until the end of shift, accompanying him out into the pre-dawn cold. John started for home, trotting a bit more briskly than comfortable. Thanks to the last close call, he made sure to check carefully before stepping into the road - and that’s when he felt something sting his cheek. Once more, driven by habit, he flattened around a corner, immediately chastising himself. Right, of course, Watson. There’s enemy fire on Newgate Street. He touched his cheek anyhow. Reflex again. That was probably why he wasn’t shocked to see the blood when he glanced down at his hand.

He jammed the hand into his pocket, clutching Miss Hooper’s mysterious card.


End file.
